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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25394086">A Humble Fisherman</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/maglor_still_lives/pseuds/maglor_still_lives'>maglor_still_lives</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Not Beta Read, Post-Silmarillion Maglor, finishing stories is for chumps</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 12:47:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,305</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25394086</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/maglor_still_lives/pseuds/maglor_still_lives</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A young musician tracks down the greatest (well, second-greatest) minstrel on the continent.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Tolkien Gen Week 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Humble Fisherman</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was an anon prompt on tumblr that I answered a month later and about a thousand words longer than I intended to.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>She stepped gingerly along the rocky shore, avoiding the half-frozen tide pools; her boots were falling apart and another soaking of seawater might destroy them for good. Stringy brown seaweed hung motionless in the stagnant water, and strange pale crabs darted for shelter when her shadow fell upon the stones.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It could be no one else. Well, there was one other, but he did not seem the seafaring type. No, that gray figure standing in the waves? That was him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She felt on her pack, checking from habit that her belongings were still there. Harp? Check. Journal? Check. Pamphlet of sheet music she wanted help with? Check, although it was fraying quite badly by now, and damaged by water too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind muddy gray clouds, the sun was pale and past its zenith. She yanked her trousers a few inches higher off her ankles and hurried along; her quarry moved fast, as she’d found out so many times. He was able to disappear over the horizon in a few instants, not to be seen again for months. But even so, she had a good feeling about today.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few more steps and she would be upon him. He did not seem to notice her approach; instead he stared out to sea, his knotted black hair lashing across his face. She hopped and stumbled along. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She halted an arm’s length away; even her excitement couldn’t distract completely from the reek of salt and seaweed that rippled from the elf with every movement. He was staring at the sea before him, watching it rise around his calves and then recede toward the western horizon, over and over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Standing there, she suddenly was at a loss for words. She had spent so long trying to find him that the opening phrases eluded her—how do you greet someone who’s spent years trying to avoid speaking to you? This was too important, too sensitive, and here she was tongue-tied—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A seagull chose that moment to fly crying in front of the sun, breaking the elf’s trance. His nostrils flared and his eyes widened; he whirled and stared at her for a moment, frozen except for his darting eyes--then his brows descended and his face closed in hostility. “The hell do you want?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice was rough—too rough for a singer, surely!—and she hesitated. What if it wasn’t him? What if she was wrong? Her mouth opened and no words came out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well?” he prodded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You--you are Maglor, yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maglor. Son of--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never heard of him.” He turned away, back to the sea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Panic swelled in her. “You must be! Who else could you be?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugged. “My name is Aelf. I am a fisherman. Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Impossible!</span>
  </em>
  <span> “A fisherman—what could you possibly be fishing?” She gestured at the choppy sea. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He frowned, taken a little aback. “Uh—green ones.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Green ones!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” she spluttered. “What—mackerel? herring? salmon? bass? And where’s your boat?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugged again. “The green fish are not in season. Nothing for me to do right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, well, I—I am Alagmaeron. I come from Edhellond, near Gondor.” She stopped talking. Maglor—she was nearly certain it was him—stood impatiently. “And if you have nothing to do, perhaps you would listen to a bit of the song I’ve written and give me your opinion—as a humble fisherman, of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grunted. “Since nothing else will persuade you to leave me alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> She untied her harp and tuned it slowly, looking at him with curiosity. He was tall—</span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> tall—and gaunt as a skeleton, with dark matted hair that reached past his waist. His skin was wrinkled from too much salt and not enough water, and his eyes were sunken deep into his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You brought a harp? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eru,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” he said with a shake of his head. “You are dogged, I grant you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had a scar that crossed the length of his forehead, narrowly missed his eye, and ran all the way to the edge of his jaw. It separated the left corner of his mouth from the rest of his lips, twisting his expressions and stiffening his words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve traveled too far to go away now,” Alagmaeron said. She didn’t bother to get the sheet music--she’d memorized it long ago. She settled down and began to play. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The song was a story she’d heard from her parents—the War of Wrath and the flight of the last survivors of Doriath to Edhellond in the far South. Maglor frowned as he recognized it; the references to his family and the kinslaying were oblique, but they were not lost on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She only played the first few verses, realizing it was best to not try his patience. When she stopped, he stayed silent for a long moment, eyes unfocused. She watched his face intently. What if he hadn’t liked it? What if she had come all this way and for nothing? Surely if the great bard Maglor thought her talentless, he would be right. She would have to abandon her art, live with the--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maglor blinked, refocued and looked at her. “I thought it was good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You--” her voice shook. “You did?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I think it’s off to a good start. And you need to stop worrying what I think of it. There are tastes besides mine.” He almost smiled at her apprehension.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A good start?</span>
  </em>
  <span> “What would you change?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The tempo, to start with,” he said, sitting down unsteadily a few feet from her. “It could pick up around the battles and slow in between. And you might be well served with some alliteration in the fourth verse, to recall what you said in the second.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alagmaeron had pulled out a sheet of paper and was frantically taking notes. “You like the chord progression?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For the beginning, yes. If it returns in a major key at the end, when you get to Edhellond, that could work well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” She looked back up at him, ready to ask the most important question. “Could you see it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Vaguely. I can tell you have the image in your mind, but more descriptions would help the audience share in it.” He paused, the scar on his face twisting as he frowned. “Be more direct about the Fëanorions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want me to say what happened? Explicitly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is the truth, is it not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...I think so. I wasn’t there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The kinslaying at Doriath was brutal and unnecessary. A great many elves died on the Noldors’ blades, yes, but hundreds of others were killed by stampeding and fumes in the Thousand Caves. And the Silmaril was not even nearly recovered. Although,” he added in a pensive tone, “three of Fëanor’s sons died there as well, and Maedhros’s failure to find Dior’s sons haunted him even to the moment of his death.” Alagmaeron watched Maglor yank himself violently from the memories and adopt a falsely cheerful tone. “Or so I am told. I am but a humble fisherman.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” she said. “I can do that. My people don’t talk about it, though, at least not with any detail. Who should I ask for stories?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Any survivors. Elrond keeps good histories, I am told. He will know, or know someone who knows. And there may be a few of my own warriors scattered around the continent. They will give you the truth as well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, I’ll go to Imladris straightaway. Can you show me the key change you were thinking of?” she asked, offering him the harp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maglor shook his head and lifted his right hand. The skin was mottled black and red, the fingers stiff and shriveled. “I can describe it, but I cannot play.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alagmaeron restrained a gasp, although she had expected this. “Fishing accident?” she asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fishing accident,” he agreed, and smiled.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
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